


Can you lie next to her

by miss_moberg



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Adultery, Anal Sex, M/M, PWP, Possessive Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-13
Updated: 2013-12-13
Packaged: 2018-01-04 12:31:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1081042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miss_moberg/pseuds/miss_moberg
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mary calls while Sherlock is fucking her husband.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Can you lie next to her

**Author's Note:**

> News! The lovely [PapayaTwilight](http://archiveofourown.org/users/PapayaTwilight) translated this into Chinese, which you can find [here](http://221dnet.211.30i.cn/bbs/forum.php?mod=viewthread&tid=4918&page=1&extra=#pid280462).
> 
> The beautifully talented [hayamiyuu](http://hayamiyuu.tumblr.com/) created hot, hot, HOT fanart based off this work (which is created off fanart, so kind of fanwork-ception here hahaha!) which is on her [tumblr here](http://hayamiyuu.tumblr.com/post/72558109678/can-you-lie-next-to-herby-hayamiyuu-pixiv-idea)!
> 
> Check out these wonderfully talented people!

Despite his phone's ringer being at maximum volume, John missed the sound of it going off. With Sherlock's cock buried in his arse, it was difficult to notice much of anything beyond the fingertips stroking the curve in his back from his position face down in the wood floor.

"Look, John." Sherlock never paused in his thrusts, only slowing to a gentle pace that made John whimper in frustration. "Mary's calling. Should you answer?"

John couldn't see the smirk, but he could feel it in the circle of Sherlock's hips as he picked up the phone and leaned over him, dangling the mobile so the bright screen could be read. John tried to shake his head, but his body shook instead. Sherlock tutted and moved his thumb down to the call button. "She's your wife, John. You can't just ignore her."

The heat of Sherlock's chest spread over his back and John felt lips and tongue on the bite mark on his shoulder. "No Sherlock. Please don't." His voice held the high, rough edged whine of a dog in heat, and when he swiped at the phone, it was raised out of his reach and out of sight.

"If you won't answer, I will. I'll tell her you're busy." Hot breath in his ear and the veiled threat caused him to whine again and rock back, hiding his need for firmer thrusts behind the pretense of bucking him off while he was pinned down and fucked, hand on his neck to keep him in place. "Hello, Mary? Yes, he's here. I've had him a bit distracted today, but he can talk. Hold on." The smooth surface of plastic pressed into his ear, warmed and slightly wet from the sweat off Sherlock's face.

He sucked in a breath through his nose, envying Sherlock for sounding so calm and placid, not even excess breath behind his words to give away their carnal activities. "H-Hey Mary." John's breath puffed over the mobile, betraying some hint about his current state of being fucked into and open for Sherlock.

The warm presence over his back disappeared and his skin shrank from the coolness of the absence of touch. The hand on his neck was still there, still holding him to the floor, still confining his movements, and then a hand on his hips, soft in its touch.

He missed Mary’s question, and stuttered to buy time to answer generically enough to cover all bases.

"Answer her, John. Answer your wife." There was a growl there, a grinding, John imagined, of bitterness against the word ‘wife,’ and the meaning and weight of it, of the fact that the wedding ring on John's left hand meant this little soldier didn't belong solely to one person anymore. Sherlock made him keep the ring on. Sherlock made him talk to Mary. Sherlock made him bite his lip until it bled and the taste of acrid metal filled his mouth and spilled out as trimmed nails dug into his giving flesh and the hard bone of his hip.

"He-you know how he is, M." This seemed appropriate enough to both ears listening. Mary sighed and asked him to come home soon, and Sherlock cooed softly and sweetly rubbed his hips in large, maddening circles against his hole, wet and red and loose and teased beyond what John could handle now. "I know, I'll be home soon, love."

The endearment slipped out and punishment was immediate. Teeth at his jugular, a deep growl in his ear that rumbled from the chest now pressed along his arching back as a vicious thrust stabbed his overstimulated nerves. Closed lips and a gag couldn't stop the moan that ripped out of John, a ragged string of vowels he had never made in bed with Mary, nothing even close. There was no hiding a moan like that, no explaining it away.

Her response was sharp through the tiny speaker of the phone, but, like in all other parts of John’s life, Sherlock took responsibility and the phone out of John's clammy hand, ended the call, and tossed it away.

"She knows," John moaned, and it was all because of Sherlock, with his neutral voice and smugness when he greeted her. He knew the answered call was Sherlock’s victory, rubbing it in that not even marriage vows and rings could tie John to anyone else.

"And if she does?" John tried to think through the heavy scent of musk and sex and the quiet, wet slaps, and the gentle, almost apologetic kiss to the bite mark slick with blood.

“I've hurt her,” John whined, and the thrusts sped up, hard and rewarding as they pounded his prostate. He clenched his hands into fists and tried to pretend the heat that spread through him, melting him to a liquid state, was a direct response to anal stimulation and had nothing to do with the way Sherlock fucked and scratched and bit him, claiming him as he wore John down into a mess.

"She'll leave me, Sherlock,” John begged, but not for the normal life he'd had with her, unsatisfied and hungry at the end of their dates and sex. He begged for something other than the touch of his own hand stroking himself while he closed his eyes and pictured a violinist's fingers stained with chemistry and old, old spots of nicotine he sometimes thought about sucking away. He begged for forgiveness from the cardinal sin of moving on and finding meaning of his existence outside of Sherlock.

The pressure over his body increased until he felt as though he was draped in a blanket of Sherlock with his cruel, tight hold and the faint scent of cigarettes and bow rosin. Pinned by his wrists and used, he welcomed the grunts of exertion in his ear and the wet smack on his arse as Sherlock bottomed out inside him on each thrust. He shut his eyes at dry, warm lips against his ear murmuring his name over and over, sunk into the sensation of being filled and completed by Sherlock’s cock.

John’s knees had long since gone numb, and a puddle of precome had formed beneath him. He sobbed at each stab into his sensitive nerves, his arse tightening like a spring being wound. Sherlock fucked like it was a lesson that John understood clearly. He gasped and rocked back to meet his hips, full acceptance of Sherlock’s complete claim on him, participating in his surrender.

Soon, John was mewling at each snap of his hips. He whimpered at the scrape of teeth over the back of his neck. Sherlock’s final move was to hold him in place, biting around his brain stem like a jungle cat, a panther pinning him to the floor. He couldn't move, only kneel there and take the relentless pounding, the blunt tip of his cock hitting someplace deep within him John didn’t even know existed. When the pressure in his cock became unbearable, when his bollocks were hard and drawn up to his body, when blood slid down his neck, teeth puncturing him again, John shivered down to his very core and cried out and splashed white cum across the floorboards.

He slumped there and winced as Sherlock fucked him through his over-sensitivity, snarling in his ear, “You’re mine, John Watson. No one can have what’s mine.” When he came, semen overflowed and dribbled out, spilling down his thighs. Sherlock pushed him down until he lay flat on his stomach in the middle of his own fluids and mess, cool and sticky and drying to his sweaty skin.

When Sherlock pulled out, John realised the how thick the quiet was in the flat. Before all he’d heard was blood roaring through his veins and the rapid drumming of his heart, the deep, rough husk of Sherlock’s voice, and their mixed sounds of exertion and pleasure. Now it was only their soft breathing and the brush of Sherlock against him as he laid John out, position him as he liked. It was quiet enough for his mind to come back now and think of the consequences that would unfold harsh and ugly in the dim light of a London-grey morning.

Slim fingers stroked from crown to brain stem to tailbone, petting over each bump of vertebrae and riding the waves of pleasure flexing through the muscles in his back.

"I won't leave you, John; not even when you're in your grave."

John turned his head to watch Sherlock suck his ring finger down to the knuckle, come back up with a scraping of teeth. He spit the gold band in the direction of the phone. It landed somewhere unseen with a tiny clinking sound. When Sherlock kissed him, he could taste the heavy metal of vows on their tongues.


End file.
